


i'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

by Maharetchan



Series: impromptu [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autism, Character Study, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mental Health Issues, Neurodiversity, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Will have a discussion about neurodiversity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This originates from [a request](http://laurelcastilloz.tumblr.com/post/102295348428/i-know-you-dont-take-writing-requests-or-discuss-your) I had on tumblr; I don't usually accept requests, but I took the chance to explore Hannibal and his neurodiversity, which is something a lot of people don't think about, I guess.  
> I try to put some references to it in my writings, but they are usually very subtle: this story explores them more directly.  
> Just FYI: I am autistic with low empathy and I headcanon Hannibal as autistic with ASPD.  
> If you disagree, good for you, but please don't leave comments to start a fight, because I'll simply ignore and/or delete them.  
> This kind of works as a sequel of "you can handle the truth inside of me", but it can be read independently; I am working on a proper sequel that hopefully will see the light soon.  
> Contact me for any question.

“You're self-diagnosed, right?”

 

Hannibal doesn't move at first, keeps his eyes fixed on the book in front of him, on the black ink and the pages yellowed by time for a moment longer, before carefully, slowly, rising them to stare at the man on the other side of the room; Will is not facing him, apparently too busy choosing something to read from the shelves of his library, but the truth is, he's trying to convey more power in his words, allowing them to fills the empty space between them.

 

He smiles to himself at that, at the subtle manipulation that seeps through his stance and the careless attitude Will is assuming. He can see through that, through the layers of his cheap clothes that look alien among the richness around them, and can feel the tension in the muscles of his back, in the hand digging in his pocket to keep himself under control, and in the faint scent of morbid curiosity he emits. 

 

Will goes to sit next to him on the couch with a heavy tome he doesn't open resting on his legs, folds under the blanket and keeps a firm distance between himself and Hannibal; he wonders for a moment more if he's allowed to touch him, imagining the exposed skin of his naked feet and of his calves under his jeans, but the light in the man's eyes tells him that he must give something first, if he wants to receive something in return.

 

The quid pro quo between them is a messy affair, something that leaves both of them dirty, sweaty and tired, a constant back and forth they don't want to give up no matter how hard to sustain it can get; this time, at least, it feels easy. Hannibal breathes in the pungent smell of wood burning in the fireplace, the sweetness of the chocolate mousse resting in the pristine glasses on the coffee table, Will's unmistakable scent.

 

Then he closes his books and turns slightly to face him.

 

“What makes you say that?”

 

Will shrugs, his whole body following that simple movement in ways Hannibal can't help finding fascinating, because he can imagine every single muscle, bone, connective tissue and nerve at work, like he's an anatomical model with every part of its interior exposed to be studied.

 

“Quite a few details: first of all, I'm absolutely sure you'd never let anyone analyze you or mingle inside your brain. Even I can't get in too deep when I try, and you allow me way more room to maneuver than you do to anybody else.”

 

“I do feel obligated to remind you that I have a psychiatrist.”

 

Hannibal observes Will's smile turn into a barely sketched grin, and how he averts his eyes for a moment, like a model assuming his pose, ready to be painted, but also wanting to conceal the feelings behind his expression.

 

“Oh I'm sure you have more insights on Doctor Du Maurier than she does on you.”

 

Will stretches his legs and they boldly take over the space on top of his own, like he wants to occupy it forcefully to keep the conversation, and Hannibal, under his control: he's always surprised by how readily he allows it, even welcomes it, how he accepts the overwhelming chaos Will brings into his life, the unyielding strength he has and that he could never manage to tame, utterly fascinated by it all, needing it in his life more than it would be wise to, taste it on the back of his tongue despite the toxic and persistent feeling of danger they both feel.

 

“Please continue, I did not wish to interrupt you.”

 

“While you'd never let anyone in your head, at some point in your life you must have felt the need to find out what was going on inside you, the weight and different sides of it, to understand why you felt everything that differently from everybody else, why your mind was so strange and complicated. Curiosity is your strongest drive, and you're too well adjusted to be unaware of who you are, even though I'm not sure how much of it comes from acceptance and how much from repression.”

 

“You have some very deep insights tonight, anything in particular brought them up?”

 

The genuine smile comes back, and Hannibal carefully starts massaging one of Will's feet, the skin cold under his hand, warming up as he touches him. He allows it, relaxed and pliant, keeping all his strength in his words.

 

“The textures in your house, the music you play, the incenses you burn... everything seems to be designed to be soothing and calming, like a cocoon you need to wrap all around yourself to escape the world outside when it becomes too loud, like I do with my dogs, fishing, and my little house. You turned the whole architecture of your home into a coping mechanism for your sensory issues. I expect this is even more important now that you're not killing.”

 

Hannibal has the vivid image of his own hands around Will's neck, of himself squeezing life and words out of him, compressing arteries and vein, and silencing his voice forever, then cradling his dead body in his arms, humming under his breath. There's the threat, the feeling of being dissected and skinned, opened and analyzed, something he's far too familiar with, but as the one holding the scalpel; and there's the intimacy, the desire of being seen, of being understood, of someone else who can accept the bulk of the horror inside him and slide deep under his skin to drink it up.

 

His nails gently scratch Will's skin, not giving in to the idea of digging them deeply; his face is perfectly still, but his eyes shine.

 

“How old were you?”

 

Hannibal tilts his head to the side and considers switching the subject, kissing him, touching him, taking him to bed to make him forget all of this, but his sometimes almost suicidal curiosity takes over just like Will knew it would, occupies all his thoughts and he can't resist pushing forward to see where this will go, how far.

 

It's what brought them here, after all, this longing to destroy, create, to get close and smother, but also to run away, maul, heal, abuse and hold dearly in his arms he feels for Will and that makes him look at the two of them as an experiment and as the vocal emission of his most secret needs. Of his darkest side, because Will makes him want to annihilate him, to own him wholly even if it means to obliterate him, and of that part of him that craves a companionship with the only person that can take both of them, that now is strong enough to embrace who Hannibal is and who they both are.

 

He smiles, in the end.

 

“Around seventeen, after I came to Paris. Health care in Lithuania was poor, especially concerning mental health issues, as you can imagine. They locked me up for months after the suicide attempt, much worse things happened to those who were declared insane. My uncle had many friends in the field of psychiatry and I took advantage of their libraries, I asked them for advices, I educated myself as much as I could.”

 

“Is that when you decided to become a doctor?”

 

Will shivers when Hannibal exposes his teeth, even if just lightly, but doesn't push away, like he feels absolutely safe in the claws of his own predator. He's conscious of the power that comes with them, of the danger, but instead of being threatened, he's attracted to it like a moth to a flame.

 

“Oh no, that was earlier, and far less clean. You must know that during World War II, Soviet soldiers used to mine fields and woods to slow down the advancing German Army, and many of them remained buried there for years and years, even decades. Until some poor unfortunate happened to set one off. I was thirteen when one of the boys in my orphanage had that terrible luck: his legs had been completely torn off, he was bleeding so much I could not tell the color of his clothes anymore: he did not even look human anymore, just a mass of blood and gore, screaming so terribly I was haunted by those screams for days, although not entirely unpleasantly. He died soon, of course, but I was smitten by how much the human body can take before it dies, how much pain and damage it can handle; anatomy became my passion, I needed to know everything about it, I felt compelled.”

 

That earns him another smile.

 

“Yeah, I get that. My special interest has always been fishing and sea life, I was obsessed with it as a kid, I used to spend hours in the library and could go on ranting about it for days...”

 

“But your father did not respond very well, I can assume from what you told me about him.”

 

“I'm not sure he ever even listened. So you were never formally diagnosed, right? I mean, not by another doctor.”

 

Hannibal keeps touching Will absently, to occupy his hands and his mind. But how quickly the other man changed the subject does not escape him. 

 

“There was no need; the idea of someone else, some ignorant and pathetic practitioner fumbling into my brain is inconceivable for me, as you gathered. And I know how to analyze myself.”

 

Will pushes himself forward from where he's sitting to run a hand through his hair, pulling at the roots enough for a bolt of adrenaline to run through his body, a soft burning left behind. They both share it, how pain soothes them. They hurt each other because it brings them back to where they are and keeps them grounded.

 

“Your music tells so much about you, you know? How it fills the space all around you, but never suffocates you, like there's always enough room to breathe; soft and warm, but also cold and aseptic sometimes, like the textures you use, like the colors. Everything.”

 

Hannibal tries to bring him down for a kiss, but Will is faster and goes back to his spot on the couch, smiling as he takes one of the glasses and eats a spoonful of mousse, his lips stained with chocolate after.

 

He knows what the moment to strike is when he sees it, when Will exposes too much of himself, sometimes even willingly, because he's too curious for his own good as well. He can spot his weaknesses one by one even under the armor the man has built, even through his ability to hide and shield himself to block out all threats. They're both too good at unveiling each other's secrets, and neither of them seems to want to protect himself from the other.

 

And, most importantly, Hannibal is not kind enough to let it go; Will can be so beautiful when he's in distress.

 

“And what about you? I am sure your situation has been very different.”

 

Will's eyes darken at that, he looks away like a child would, focusing on eating for a few moments, while Hannibal allows himself to indulge in watching him squirm, and the sudden uneasiness he senses in him is a pleasant aftertaste in his mouth.

 

Because he can't help himself, can't stop poking at the wounds hidden inside of him, as much as Will can't avoid doing just the same to him. They're destructive to each other in the best and worst ways.

 

Hannibal closes his eyes and the background music fills his ears, calms his heartbeat, clears his mind and soothes the burn of the passions inside him until he's once again completely in control. The blanket on his legs is heavy enough to keep him warm and provide the pressure they both need; when Will is ready to continue, Hannibal is prepared.

 

“My father brought me to so many doctors when I was a kid, and all of them had their opinions: autism, Asperger's, ADHD, depression... you name it and some doctor probably diagnosed me with it. They prescribed me medications too, sometimes, but we were too poor to buy them, moved too often, and I didn't need them anyway. I was officially diagnosed with autism when I was around eighteen, but I knew that was what I had long before that. It was always what clicked the best for me, with how I feel, with who I am. That's me, and giving it a name was good, I just wish people didn't try to use it against me from time to time.”

 

“Like I did?”

 

Will snorts and then looks at him like he's disappointed by his words, by how simplistic and banal he's making it sound, when they both know it was something completely different, the monster between them. Hannibal is so proud of him, of his strength hidden under the cold coals of his weak appearance, of the sharp edge of his words. He wants to kiss them out of his mouth and feel on his own flesh how deep they can cut.

 

“You used my illness against me, my fears, how the Hobbs case had impacted me, not my autism. And now that I'm not sick anymore, and most likely I'll never happen again, you're not acting that differently, I just see who you really are. All the choices I made about you, I made them as myself, probably far too lucid and sober for my own good. This doesn't means I forgive you for what you did to me, for the pain you caused me, and you know that, you know I won't forget anything. But I used your weaknesses against you as well, and you respect a worthy opponent. I'm willing to say that what we did to each other makes us even.”

 

Hannibal simply nods politely at that, and when Will extends his hand towards him, he offers his arm to him readily. 

 

Will runs his fingers on his scar, brings his wrist to his lips and kisses him right there, sinking his teeth in just enough to make a smile appear on his face: he's a creature he wants to nurture and bath in his own blood at the same time, something so bright he wants to bask in that light and shut it out forever.

 

Every fiber of him should be carved open in front of him, every molecule for him to examine. Will caresses his veins and Hannibal can picture himself slashing his own wrist open and then offering him his blood and his flesh, like he did before, only this time it'll be raw and visceral, a mess of gore and both their faces red with his life fluid, like Will imagined it.

 

“You never asked me anything while we were still having our sessions.”

 

“You never brought it up either. I was more preoccupied by other things back then, I must admit.”

 

Will smiles, and Hannibal can feel the change of subject in how he adjusts his posture. He doesn't let go of his hand.

 

“You seem to be the kind of person who experiments with medications...”

 

“I did try many, yes. It was more out of curiosity, an intellectual examination of different possibilities. Some had very undesirable ill effects on me, to the point where it was impossible for me to get out of bed for a few days, some intoxicated me so badly I had to be hospitalized. On the other hand, a few provided very interesting experiences. It is truly marvelous and unexpected what our mind can come up with when under influence.”

 

“Watching you get high must be quite something...”

 

They sink back into silence for a moment, and the music takes over, with the notes of Rimsky-Korsakov's “Scheherazade” opening taking over. He waits for the crescendo with his eyes closed, aware of Will's eyes on him, examining all his reactions, wondering what he's thinking about, perhaps, or maybe aware of the attention he's dedicating to the music. 

“It's the noise that still haunts me to this day. There was never silence in the orphanage: children crying, pipes moaning behind the decaying walls, the constant howling of the wind, how the whole house emitted these crackling and disturbing sounds... the blankets were coarse and practically useless, the food was repulsive even after years, but you had to eat it anyway, but I could live with all of this: what was unbearable was the absolute lack of a quiet place where I could hear myself think. I used to go into the woods alone to find some of it, but during the winter it was so cold, snow everywhere, drowning the sounds, yes, giving me that much needed peace, but threatening to swallow me whole as well.”

 

Hannibal takes a deep breath and opens his eyes when Will squeezes his hand, his blue eyes alight with the red and yellow of the fireplace's flames, his cheek tainted with a soft pink blush: he wants to sink his teeth into the whole of him and consume him, feel under his fingers every scrap of skin, bone and flesh he can get to.

 

“Is this all a way to find a place where the world can be quiet? What we are? An experiment?”

 

“I am my own experiment, as you have so remarkably noted a while ago, everything I do is one. My whole life. But to answer your question... yes, this is a place when I can find silence. And you are a central part of it.”

 

Will's smile should be bitter, but instead it has an endeared quality. He can handle so much, deep rooted fortitude supporting him against everything. Hannibal is impressed by every side of him, even by the most banal ones, even by his weaknesses: he's seduced by who Will is, like he's infected and can't or doesn't want to find a cure.

 

The pressure on his hand is almost painful, and he thinks briefly, once again, about crushing his throat.

 

“The rarest prize. A unique specimen.”

 

“Something rare is also something precious. You do know you are precious to me.”

 

Will shakes his head, but pulls him close, kisses him, hands in his hair and his lips warm against his; Hannibal's fingers grab his neck; they don't squeeze down, but how Will bites him makes him know that he's aware of his thoughts. 

 

He's intoxicating: his body, his mind, all about him is a venom corroding his veins, so dangerous he'd have to cut off a limb to get rid of it. Instead he watches as Will sinks even deeper into his blood. As he sinks deeper into Will's and they both die in each other's harms.

 

They're both smiling when they let go.

 

“I suppose the world can be quiet for both of us here, that we could make our own peace.”

 

Hannibal closes his eyes, takes a deep breath full of Will, and listens attentively to the music they are producing.


	2. Chapter 2

"Do you feel safe with me?"

 

It's such a simple, honest and straightforward question, one of those questions only someone like Will could ask him like this, while they are half naked in bed, with no thoughts or worries, and still manage to hit something deeply buried into him with such a surgical precision. Hannibal runs a hand through the other man's hair gently while Will kisses some secret place behind his ear and then nuzzles against his neck. 

 

Hannibal's body responds in mysterious ways to how Will touches him, to how every part of him resonates with different notes that correspond to the ones Will is creating. He is a wonder. And Hannibal can't help being in awe of his beauty. 

 

"I am not sure my safety is the point here."

 

"It is for me. You open up so much with me, like you never did before, I think; you let me see parts of yourself that show me your vulnerable sides, that give me more and more power over you. I need to know if this is because you feel forced to, because you're respecting some kind of bargain you think exists between us, or because you genuinely feel safe enough with me to do it."

 

"How do you know that I'm being honest? I could be feeding you enough truth to keep you satisfied and lie about all the rest. How can you trust my words, my promises, how can you trust me after all I did?"

 

Will meets his eyes with a frown on his face that looks endearing in ways that make his darkest desires unravel: he looks so good broken and battered, defeated and diseased. His decaying body would be a work of art: if he ever did kill him, he wouldn't expose him like he used to do with his victims, but he'd keep him tucked away somewhere with him, watching corruption take possession of his flesh, watching him become just bones, white bones he'd bleach and polish to make a masterpiece out of them.

 

Hannibal smiles at him, but Will's expression doesn't change. 

 

"I think you would consider it rude, lying to me after all that happened between us. I don't believe you're always honest, you still have your twisted secrets and twisted ways to protect them, but usually you try to tell me the truth, because lying won't get you anywhere and you know that far too well."

 

"I am an open book for you, it seems."

 

Will shakes his head, doesn't push forward on that, because he can tell Hannibal is trying to stall and he has no intention of playing along. He's a skilled adversary, the best one, that can kiss him and kill him in the same breath. 

 

"Answer my question: do you feel safe with me?"

 

Hannibal fills his lungs as much as he can, before releasing his breath slowly, eyes closed. 

 

"Safety is a concept foreign to me, I never felt safe in my life, I think. You are reassuring, though, unpredictable and frightening, but in a oddly reassuring way. I feel comfortable showing you my vulnerable sides. Offering you something in return for what I took from you. But I don't feel forced to do it. It's just another part of the balance between us."

 

Will nods, runs a hand on the front of his silk pajamas shirt, feeling his heat underneath. He looks mesmerized by his words, as Hannibal is of him.

 

"The first time I caught you stimming, I thought you were doing it just on my account, to convince me we had more in common than I thought, to keep me closer. I wouldn't have been surprised, you're far to used to manipulate me and my perception of you. But then I realized it was genuine, that it was really just you stimming and grounding yourself. And I started to notice so much more: how you zone out and retreat to your memory palace when the world threatens to overwhelm you, your little obsession with order and cleanliness. 

 

"It was important for me to see that in you, to know that I could have all that in common with you. I don't know if it made me feel safe, but it was good. And I want you to know you can have that with me too. It's all so messed up, I know, of all the people I could relate so deeply to, it had to be a manipulative cannibal serial killer. I'm sure there's a moral in there somewhere."

 

He feels a burning desire to get away from him, to get rid of the ties that keep them together, because their bond is a liability he cannot afford, and yet craves more than anything. Hannibal considers all his options carefully, what he should say, what would provoke the most useful reaction, and what he really feels.

 

Will is a threat and Will is also all he wants. They're going to burn together and it'll be painful and consuming, could completely destroy them as simply as it could heal their wounds, and he cannot predict an outcome. 

 

"I never wanted anyone to see me as much as I want that with you. We are so much alike, but also immensely different. As you said, I'm not sure what I feel when I expose my weaknesses to you is safety, exactly. I could let you know me, and see me, only to have you reject my gift. You could hurt me terribly, even kill me, take away my freedom. Yet I'm still willing to trust you. Is that good enough?"

 

Will grins and kisses him only once, before going back to lie down on his chest. He's heavy and light at the same time, and smells like them both fused together. 

 

"For now it is, yes."


End file.
